


(No Grief Like) The Grief That Does Not Speak

by Robin Hood (kjack89)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Tragedy, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 11:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18120362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/Robin%20Hood
Summary: Carisi would certainly try drinking until he forgot about the ache in his chest that threatened to consume him whenever he spent too long thinking about Barba.But better that ache than the pain he felt every time he was reminded that no one else seemed to care that Barba was gone. The whole world had kept moving and it was like Carisi had been left behind, stuck somewhere between a world with Barba and a world without.





	(No Grief Like) The Grief That Does Not Speak

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
> 
> Thanks (and blame) to ships_to_sail, who encouraged and beta'd this sadness.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

_Please don’t tell me Stone’s offering a deal._

Carisi glanced down at his phone and hid a smile by taking a sip of coffee as he stood outside of the interrogation room. _Nah_ , he typed back, _we haven’t brought Stone in yet. Want to see what we can get out of the perp first._

_Good boy_ , Barba returned and not even Carisi’s coffee cup could hide his smile at that, especially when Barba followed it up with, _Want to get coffee later and discuss it?_

_Wouldn’t miss it for the world,_ Carisi typed back before sliding his phone into his pocket as Liv approached.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly reading into the smile he still wore. “Who was that?” she asked.

“No one,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly, since she raised both eyebrows at that.

“Tell no one that you’ll have to talk later,” she told him, with just a hint of amusement to clearly illustrate that she didn’t buy that for a second. “You ready for this?”

“Of course, Lieu,” Carisi responded with confidence. “I know how to get him where we need him.”

Olivia gave him a small smile and a nod and Carisi let himself into the room.

The perp in question was a typical sleezeball who clearly thought quite highly of himself so it didn’t take too much false flattery to get him to spill his guts about raping a sex worker he’d picked up in a club. Even though Carisi felt a little bit of the victory he normally felt when he got an admission from a perp, it also felt somewhat hollow.

Truth be told, he was tired of realizing that this was how little an otherwise seemingly ordinary man felt toward women.

Still, even with the admission, Carisi pressed further, knowing there was more he could get out of him, but before he could get to the next level, Olivia rapped on the glass of the room’s window, a clear sign that she needed to talk to him.

“Excuse me,” Carisi said smoothly to the perp before standing and letting himself out of the room. “Lieu, what—“

He couldn’t even get the words out of his mouth because Olivia’s shoulders were hunched, her expression ashen and tight. “Carisi—“ she started, before her voice broke, and he reached out automatically to steady her.

“Liv, what’s going on?” he asked urgently, searching her face for any clue. “Is it Noah?”

Olivia shook her head. “No, it’s—“ She took a ragged breath before somehow managing to meet his eyes. “It’s Barba. Rafael. There’s been an accident. He’s—“

Carisi’s heart stopped. “Lieu,” he managed, but just barely.

“Sonny, he’s dead.”

* * *

 

He went to the hospital.

He had no real reason to, save for the fact that the thought of going back into that interrogation room or sitting down at his desk made Carisi sick to his stomach.

Not that the thought of going to the hospital where Rafael had been declared dead on arrival made him feel any better.

But at least it was something to _do_.

Olivia didn’t argue with him or try to stop him, just sort of nodded in a dazed way which was as much approval as Carisi needed, and it occurred to him only belatedly that it was probably because she was just as lost as he was. He wondered if he should have stayed, should have—

Well, should have done something more, he guessed.

He’d have to deal with that guilt another time.

As soon as he got there, he realized what a monumental mistake it was to go to the hospital. The entire emergency room was abuzz with activity, but the chaos did nothing to break through the numbness Carisi felt spread through his entire body.

For lack of any better idea, he wandered toward the intake desk, and the nurse working there glanced up at him. “Can I help you, Detective?” she asked in clipped tones.

Carisi opened his mouth to reply but nothing seemed to come out.

“Detective,” a small voice called to his left, and he turned to see an older, dark-haired woman sitting by herself, looking as pale and drawn as he felt. “Are you here—” He voice trembled, just for a moment, before she composed herself. “Are you here for Rafael?”

Carisi knew instantly who she must be, and his stomach seemed to collapse in on itself. He nodded and swallowed hard before verifying, “Mrs. Barba?”

Lucia Barba managed an approximation of a smile and held out her hand. “Yes,” she said simply as he shook her hand. “I assume you worked with my son when he was still at the DA’s office?”

Carisi nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly, before clearing his throat and adding, “I’m Det. Carisi, I work with Manhattan SVU.”

“Of course,” Lucia said. “He — he mentioned you.”

Despite himself, despite the situation, Carisi couldn’t quite stop the tiny smile he felt flicker at the corners of his mouth. “All lies, I’m sure.”

“I learned a long time ago to take everything my son said with a grain of salt,” Lucia told him, her faint smile eerily reminiscent of her son’s.

Carisi felt a lump growing in his throat and he ducked his head, trying desperately not to give in to the realization that he would never again see that smile. “So did I,” he said roughly, the only words he was able to choke out.

Luckily, he was rescued from trying to string together anything more coherent by a tall man in a suit coat with a hospital ID badge clipped to his lapel who made his way briskly to Lucia. “Mrs. Barba?” he asked, and when she nodded, he told her, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He said the words in the professional tone of one who delivered such a pronouncement multiple times a day, and Carisi felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

The man, whom Carisi could only assumed was some kind of hospital administrator, continued, “I cannot imagine how difficult this must be for you. If you would like, you can speak to the hospital grief counselor, who can help guide you through the process—”

“Process?” Lucia questioned, her voice small. “What process?”

The administrator cleared his throat. “The process of how you would like the...remains to be handled.”

Lucia lifted a hand to her mouth, her fingers shaking slightly. “I don’t...I don’t know,” she whispered. “We had never discussed — I never thought to ask—”

Even though he had just met Lucia, even though she knew him at best as a footnote in whatever Barba would tell his mother about work, Carisi did the only thing her could think to do: he sat down next to her and he took her hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s ok,” he said, even though it wasn’t, even though he was fairly certain it would never be ok again. “We’ll figure this out.”

“Why don’t you meet with the grief counselor?” the administrator said, in an authoritative way that suggested he was going to make her do so whether she wanted to or not. “They’ll be able to help you sort through all of the decisions that need to be made.”

Lucia looked at Carisi, who nodded encouragingly. He certainly couldn’t help her. For all his conversations with Barba, even the late night ones when Barba was practically homebound after the death threats he’d received, the question of what to do in the case of his untimely demise had never come up.

In fact, there were so many things that they had never had a chance to talk about, so many questions that Carisi would never get answered, this unnamed thing between them left dangling on the ledge of what Carisi had always wanted, and he screwed his eyes up, trying not to let the tears he could feel welling fall.

When he opened his eyes again, Lucia was gone, assumedly to talk to the grief counselor, but the administrator was still there, looking at him expectantly. “I’m sorry,” Carisi said, his voice hoarse. “Did you ask me something?”

“I asked if you were investigating Mr. Barba’s death,” the administrator repeated.

Carisi shook his head. “No, I, uh, I know — _knew_ him. We worked together.”

The administrator nodded. “In that case, we need someone to officially identify the remains before we can release the body from the hospital’s custody,” he said, businesslike, and Carisi just stared at him. Remains, body — it all sounded so clinical, so _final_. As if this were any other dead body like the hundreds Carisi had encountered in his career, and not Rafael Barba, not the man he counted as a mentor and a friend and a potential—

“Normally, we’d ask the next of kin to identify the remains,” the administrator continued, oblivious to Carisi’s inner anguish. “But given Mrs. Barba’s emotional state…”

He trailed off and Carisi swallowed, hard, understanding what was being asked of him in not so many words. “I’ll do it,” he offered quietly.

The administrator nodded, clearly relieved. “If you’ll just follow me, then.”

Carisi had no choice but to do so, listlessly trailing after him as the man led him away from the emergency room. “Where are we going?” he asked, mostly just to punctuate the silence.

The administrator glanced over his shoulder. “Oh — the morgue.”

Of course.

They don’t keep dead bodies in hospital rooms.

He didn’t bother asking any questions after that.

All too soon — or all too long, Carisi couldn’t really be sure; time had stopped making sense to him the moment those words had come out of Liv’s mouth — they reached what Carisi could only assume was the morgue, and he hesitated. “How—” he started, barely able to get the word out, the rest of his question dying on his tongue, but the administrator seemed to understand.

“It was a car crash,” he said, gentle for the first time. “It was over very quickly. He most likely didn’t feel anything.”

Carisi nodded slowly. “And does he — does he look—”

Again, the administrator understood his question. “Most of his injuries were internal. Some minor cuts and scrapes, but nothing you need to prepare yourself for.”

As if there was a way that Carisi could prepare himself for any of this.

Still, he nodded again and took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

The administrator nodded as well as pushed the door open, stepping back to allow Carisi into the room first.

The first thing that struck him was how cold it was, the chill seeming particularly appropriate, given everything, and he was tempted to remark on it, to make some dark joke about it.

But then he saw the sheet-covered body and any gallows humor he might’ve found in the situation disappeared.

The administrator didn’t follow Carisi into the room, apparently trusting whoever was working in the morgue to take care of things from there, and sure enough the morgue worker bustled over to where Carisi stood, rooted to the spot. “Detective,” she said, after a quick glance at the shield on his hip. “Are these remains going to the ME’s office? I haven’t gotten any paperwork—”

Carisi swallowed before shaking his head. “No,” he said. “No, I’m, uh, I’m here to identify the—” His mouth went dry. “The remains.”

Understanding crossed her face and she nodded. “Of course,” she murmured, moving to the head of the table before glancing at him. “Are you ready?”

He didn’t trust himself to speak and settled for a sharp nod, holding his breath as she turned down the sheet just far enough to reveal Barba’s face. Carisi exhaled sharply as he stared at the features he had spent countless hours focusing on in a crowded courtroom, in Barba’s office, seated next to each other at Forlini’s…

How strange it was to see them here, like this.

How strange to see Barba like this.

He stared at him as if waiting for him to open his eyes, to sit up and say something in that biting tone of voice, but Barba didn’t move. Barba lay there cold and motionless and Carisi tasted bile in the back of his throat. “It’s him,” he managed, barely, each word of the simple confirmation twisting like a knife in his gut.

It really was Barba lying there on the table.

Barba was dead.

Carisi reached out automatically to grip the edge of the table, swaying unsteadily. “Are you ok?” the morgue worker asked, clearly concerned, and Carisi shook his head.

“Can I…” His voice broke. “Can I have a moment? Alone?”

The worker hesitated. “It’s not really protocol…” She trailed off, clearly debating over pushing the issue, before nodding. “Sure. I’ll just be right outside.”

Carisi didn’t watch her leave, staring at Barba as if willing him to move, to flinch, to give any indication that this wasn’t real, that this wasn’t happening. When he didn’t, Carisi moved in closer, wishing beyond any possible hope that he could somehow erase this moment, purge it from his memory so that his last thought of Barba wasn’t this cold, lifeless body.

At least the hospital administrator had been correct: there were very little external signs, at least on his face, of the car crash that had reduced Rafael Barba to this. The only thing Carisi could see was a small cut above his right temple, almost at his hairline. He reached out almost automatically to brush his thumb against it, his fingers resting lightly on Barba’s hair. “Raf—” he whispered.

A sob rose in his chest unbidden and he bowed his head, struggling to contain his emotions.

He couldn’t.

His sob echoed strangely in the cold room as his fingers closed in Barba’s hair, holding onto him as if he could somehow bring him back. If he could somehow make this not real. “My God, Raf, please—”

He didn’t know what he was even asking for.

After a few minutes, he was finally able to get his ragged sobs in check, and he hastily wiped at his cheeks as the door to the morgue opened and the worker cautiously poked her head in. “Detective?” she asked tentatively.

Carisi straightened, brushing his cheeks once more before turning to look at her. “We done here?” he asked hoarsely.

“Can you just...sign here?” she asked awkwardly, holding out a clipboard. Carisi didn’t even look at the document that he scrawled his name on, even though he could hear Barba’s taunting voice in his head asking him what kind of lawyer signed something without reading it. His hand shook as he signed and he dropped the pen with a clatter. “Detective, are you alright?”

“Fine,” he said harshly, brushing past her. “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t.

There was a very good chance he never would be again.

He had no recollection of making his way out of the hospital but he must have, because the next thing he knew, he was bent over the sparse bushes near the entrance, emptying his stomach.

He lifted a hand and shakily wiped his mouth as he stared unseeingly at the hospital.

Barba was gone.

And Carisi had never felt so alone.

* * *

 

He went to work the next day, for lack of anything better to do. He couldn’t sit in his apartment and stare at the walls and think about Barba. He might actually go crazy if he tried.

So he put on his suit — one of the ones Barba had once proclaimed as almost acceptable, though he tried not to think about that — and his hands only shook slightly as he tied his tie — a polka-dotted one, and he remembered thinking of Barba when he bought it, but he tried to put that from his mind.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked drawn, pale, and exhausted, but he thought he looked presentable.

Based on the doubletake Rollins did when he walked in, maybe not. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Working,” Carisi said shortly, sitting down at his desk. “What does it look like?”

Rollins mouth opened slightly before her expression softened, and he flinched at the look he saw on her face.

It was pity.

“Sonny—” she started quietly, but before she could say anything more, Olivia called out, “Carisi, my office.”

A muscle tightened in Carisi’s jaw and he brushed past Rollins, making his way to Olivia’s office. “Lieu,” he said in greeting, standing across from her.

She glanced up at him. “Have a seat, Detective.”

It was strangely formal, and Carisi had a feeling he knew what this formality would precede. “I’m good with standing, thanks,” he said, a little roughly.

Olivia sighed and took her glasses off, and for the first time, Carisi realized she looked just as drawn and pale as he did. As if she, too, hadn’t been able to sleep the previous night. “Detective, you shouldn’t be here today.”

“Wasn’t aware I had requested any vacation days.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Olivia’s face and she sighed again. “You need to take a few days off. You’ve just had a big loss, and emotionally—”

“So have you,” Carisi shot back, an edge to his voice. “I don’t see you taking time off.”

Olivia’s expression tightened. “You and Rafael were—” She hesitated as if looking for the right words. “Closer,” she landed on, “than he and I were, especially after what happened. You kept in touch. Besides—” Her voice sharpened. “This was an order, not a request.”

Carisi shook his head, gripping the chair he had declined to sit in with both hands as he tried to find some way to reason with her, something he could say to convince her to let him stay, to not force him to go back to his apartment, back to the insurmountable grief that threatened at every moment to lick like flames up his throat into sobs he worried would never stop if he let them start.

“Liv,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes. “Please.”

Olivia looked at him for a long second before she sighed and shook her head. “Fine,” she said reluctantly. “But you’re on desk duty until further notice.” Carisi nodded slowly and Olivia’s expression softened slightly. “And Sonny, if you need to talk—”

“I’m good, Lieu, thanks,” Carisi said, turning away before she could say anything more. He could feel her eyes on him as he made his way back to his desk, so he made sure to keep his shoulders squared, his head held high.

He wasn’t going to give her a reason to change her mind.

Rollins gave him a concerned look as he sat down, but instead of saying anything to him, she made her way to Olivia’s office. Frankly, Carisi was fine with that. He’d rather not have to deal with her fussing over him right now.

He glanced up when Fin strolled into the precinct, but Fin just raised an eyebrow at him. “Liv not making you take time off?” he asked, pausing by Carisi’s desk.

Carisi shrugged, looking back down at the stack of paperwork in front of him. “I don’t need time off.”

“Of course you don’t,” Fin said easily, and for a moment it looked like he was going to say something more. Instead, he settled for clapping Carisi on the shoulder before making his way to his own desk, that small touch, so uncharacteristic of Fin, saying more than his words ever could.

Carisi spent most of that day in a daze, putting all his focus on the pile of paperwork he had been meaning to catch up on weeks. Truth be told, he spent most of that week in a daze, numbly filling out case reports and filing evidence logs.

It was a small mercy, just enough concentration necessary that he couldn’t dwell on Barba, but tedious enough that he could do it without much thought.

The only thing that broke him from his daze, even for a moment, was watching them lower the wooden box contained Barba’s body into the ground. He gripped Olivia’s hand so tightly that he had to have hurt her, but she said nothing, just placing her other hand on top of theirs, tears shining on her cheeks.

Carisi didn’t cry.

He stared straight ahead, vision blurred by tears that would not fall, wishing for not the first time that it was him in that box, oddly comforted by the thought of the entire Carisi clan gathered around a cemetery plot instead of the pitifully small group that had assembled to say their final goodbye to Rafael Barba.

The thought made him sick to his stomach.

After the burial, they made their way to Forlini’s, to raise a glass and toast Barba as they had once toasted Mike Dodds. Carisi remembered the moment all too well, in a bar not all that different from this one, really. He remembered drinking with Barba, remembered the way Barba had smiled at him, had told him that he felt safe with him.

He had never seen Barba look that way at him before, like he trusted him, like he — well, like he cared about Sonny.

It would have been the perfect moment for Carisi to tell him how he felt, but for reasons he could never quite place, he hadn’t. Maybe it was because he was afraid of ruining that moment; maybe it was because he wasn’t sure what Barba felt for him.

But he knew how he felt. A lot had happened between that moment and this, but Carisi’s feelings had never changed. Ebbed and flowed, perhaps, but never changed.

And never wavered.

And now he’d never get a chance to tell him.

He slammed his shot of whiskey and gestured at the bartender for another, pounding that one in quick succession. Before he could ask for a third, Rollins set a glass in front of him. “Hey,” she said quietly, looking unsure as if she should sit or not and settled for hovering awkwardly next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “How’re you doing?”

“How do you think?” Carisi asked, taking the shot.

Rollins winced slightly. “I know how hard this must be for you, so if you ever want to talk…”

She trailed off and Carisi gestured for another shot. “Sure,” he said tonelessly.

Rollins looked closely at him, concern clear in her expression. “Are you sure you’re ok, Sonny?” she asked, her hand still on his shoulder.

Carisi threw back his shot without looking at her. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “I’m fine.”

* * *

 

It became a familiar litany over the next few weeks.

After the funeral, Olivia finally relented on Carisi going back to work in the field, and at first, he relished it. The usual long hours and rotating cases kept him occupied far more than desk duty could, and the overtime he put in for and volunteered for helped even more.

But it wasn’t the same as before. He found no joy in the work like he used to. Every case closed, every perp put behind bars was another reminder that he didn’t have Barba to share it with. He couldn’t text him jokes and snide comments from where he sat in a courtroom watching a perp fall apart on the stand. He couldn’t call him late at night while poring over caselaw that Stone was probably perfectly capable of reading himself, even if Carisi still couldn’t bring himself to trust him fully. He couldn’t ask him to grab coffee before work to go over the finer points of his testimony because he was worried about blowing an already shaky case, or ask him to grab a drink after said shaky case was blown.

He didn’t even realize how frequently he and Barba talked, how often they texted, until he automatically opened their text chain and had a text message half-typed before realizing — before remembering. It was like losing a limb, a part of him that he had taken for granted.

Carisi missed him, sometimes so deeply that it threatened to claw its way out of him as he stared day in and day out at the worst kinds of criminals the world had to offer who were still alive while Rafael Barba was buried six feet under.

He didn’t think he’d really ever understood perversion of justice until now.

Worse than just missing him, though, was watching as everyone else slowly got back to normal. Rollins and Fin laughed and joked like they used before Barba was even cold in the ground, and even Olivia managed to smile and laugh within a week or two.

Carisi didn’t. Carisi _couldn’t_ , not when it felt like the air had been sucked out of every room he walked into. But still he forced a smile when they told their jokes, forced himself to play along, because the alternative was Liv or Amanda realizing that something was wrong. And that might mean they would bench him again, or worse.

And this job was the only thing he had left.

One night at Forlini’s, the seat next to Carisi conspicuously open, waiting for a man who would never again sit there, Amanda leaned against the bar next to Carisi, grinning. “You see that?” she asked, her eyes following the bartender, who was laughing with some patrons as she refilled their glasses.

Carisi followed her gaze listlessly. “What?” he asked.

Amanda’s grin widened. “She likes you,” she said. “Didn’t you see the way she was flirting with you?”

Carisi stared at the woman without really seeing her, drifting off to a similar conversation, not that long ago.

_“I see you’ve found yourself an admirer.”_

_Barba’s voice was low, amused, and Carisi shot him a glance, half-smiling already. “What?”_

_Barba nodded toward the bartender as she made her way back down the bar at Forlini’s. They had met up for a drink late that night after Carisi was rescued from banging his head against a wall over a case he couldn’t quite crack by a text from Barba inviting him out. Judging by the self-satisfied look on Barba’s face, Carisi might regret that choice. “Please don’t tell me your famous detective’s intuition didn’t pick up on her flirting with you.”_

_“First of all, I never claimed to have a famous detective’s intuition,” Carisi said, grinning. “Though I’m gonna take that as a compliment about what you really think of my detective skills.”_

_Barba snorted and took a sip of whisky. “Take it however you want,” he said dismissively. “You and I both know the truth.”_

_Still, his tone was less caustic than usual, and Carisi decided he was going to take it that there was at least a kernel of truth in what Barba had said. Barba cleared his throat. “So should I tell her that you’re not interested?”_

_“Who says I’m not interested?” Carisi asked mildly._

_Barba smirked. “You’re not,” he said definitively. “In no small part because she’s not your type.”_

_“You think you know what my type is?” Barba raised an eyebrow and Carisi laughed. “Ok, fine, she’s not my type.”_

_Barba chose not to gloat at that, though Carisi was certain he wouldn’t hear the end of it at some later point. “Which begs the question — are you going to let her down easy, or just let her draw her own conclusions?”_

_Carisi looked at him appraisingly. “What conclusions would those be, Counselor?”_

_Barba shrugged and took another sip of whisky. “You’re out at a bar with a friend and former colleague, alone, with neither of you attempting to meet someone else while out. Some — who don’t know us — might call that a date.”_

_Carisi laughed, a little breathlessly, and stared down at his beer bottle, picking at the label with his thumb. “Nah,” he said dismissively. “You’d know if it was a date.”_

_“Would I,” Barba said mildly, leaning back in his seat. “Do tell.”_

_“Oh, you’d get the full Sonny Carisi date treatment,” Carisi said with a laugh. “Flowers, homemade pasta, me wearing an apron—“_

_“An apron?” Barba repeated with a laugh._

_Carisi grinned at him. “I’d put on some old records, something stereotypical, some Dean or some Sinatra, ask you to dance...”_

_He trailed off and Barba shook his head slowly. “Did you just wander out of a romantic comedy?” he asked._

_Carisi picked up his beer bottle and tipped it toward him in a mock toast. “Maybe. Too bad you’ll never find out.”_

_“Why’s that?”_

_Barba’s voice was light but Carisi sensed something beneath it, something he couldn’t quite place, and he shrugged, suddenly feeling like he couldn’t quite meet Barba’s eyes. “Oh, you know,” he said. “You probably hate that kind of stuff.”_

_A small smile lifted the corners of Barba’s mouth. “You might be surprised,” he murmured._

_Carisi looked at him, opening his mouth to scoff, to tell him that he knew him just as well as Barba claimed to know him, but he saw the soft look on Barba’s face and his mouth went dry. “Raf—“ he breathed, but before either could say or do anything more, Carisi’s phone went off._

_“Shit,” he swore, scrambling to pull it out of his pocket. “It’s Liv, I gotta—“_

_“By all means, Detective,” Barba said smoothly. “Tell Liv I said hello. And we’ll pick up where we left off next time.”_

_“Yeah,” Carisi said, his heart hammering in his chest. “Next time.”_

But there hadn’t been a next time. The next two times Barba had asked him to grab drinks, Carisi had to reschedule. And then, just when he was set to finally get coffee with him—

“Earth to Carisi.”

Carisi swallowed, the burning in his throat having nothing to do with the glass of whisky that sat in front of him, untouched. Amanda’s smile faded as she looked at him. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” he said hoarsely, tossing his scotch back in a single swallow and standing. “Just gotta get home.”

But Amanda caught his arm before he could brush past her. “I’m sorry,” she said, a little awkwardly. “I didn’t mean—”

He pulled his arm loose. “I know,” he said. “I just—”

“Sonny.”

Carisi shook his head. “I gotta go.”

He made it almost all the way home before he couldn’t hold in his tears any longer.

* * *

 

He stopped going to Forlini’s after that.

Rollins stopped asking him, which helped, but Carisi also realized he would rather stare at the walls of his apartment than sit next to Barba’s barstool and wait for a man that would never again be there.

He stopped going just about anywhere, really, besides work and his apartment. He found a strange sort of comfort in the monotony, or maybe he was mistaking numbness for comfort, but at this point, he’d take it. His world had shrunk to his apartment, to the drive to the precinct, to whatever case awaited there, then back to the precinct and then back home, and he knew there were some who would find that pathetic, but the world outside of that routine had stopped making sense to Carisi.

He had also stopped going to church.

Part of it was simple: he couldn’t find it in himself to pray to a God who would let rapists, murderers and child molesters live and breathe and so many cases even thrive while taking someone like Barba so soon. But there was a deeper pain, a guilt he couldn’t escape.

He had been a homicide detective before SVU. He had seen probably hundreds of dead bodies in his career, to say nothing of other victims across the spectrum. He had watched friends and colleagues be killed in the line. But he had somehow never lost his faith in God through all of that.

Not until Barba.

And what did that say about him when every life should be equally sacred and yet he somehow couldn’t _breathe_ , couldn’t _move_ , couldn’t find a way to be whole again because of the death of one many versus the hundreds he’d seen?

He didn’t know how to be a good Catholic if he felt that way. And there was less hypocrisy in lying immobile in bed on a Sunday than in sitting in a pew and mouthing the words he wasn’t sure he even believed in anymore.

So he stayed home.

And went to work.

And went home again.

A predictable pattern that might have continued unchecked until he wore a tread through his guilt and grief and pain and everything else he’d spent every minute since Barba’s death bottling inside himself, were it not for Olivia and Rollins whispering together one day as he made his way to his desk.

These days it wouldn’t so much as piqued his interest, were it not for Rollins breaking off abruptly when she saw him. Carisi eyed them warily, wondering how much they had picked up on from him recently. “What is it?” he asked.

Rollins looked expectantly at Olivia. “He has a right to know,” she said, her voice low.

Though Olivia sighed, she apparently agreed, since she crossed the bullpen to tell Carisi in a calm, almost soothing voice, “The drunk driver who crashed into Rafael’s Uber was picked up an hour ago by a local precinct.”

Carisi blinked at her, a stray realization piercing the fog that had consumed him. He had never asked what happened in the crash, never sought out details about what happened.

He wasn’t sure he had wanted to know, but now—

“And?” he asked, for the first time something more than dullness creeping into his voice. “When’s the arraignment?”

Olivia and Rollins exchanged glances. “The driver’s just a kid,” Rollins told him. “Barely 21. It was his first offense of any kind. He didn’t even have a parking ticket before this.”

“Shame that he’ll be spending the rest of his life behind bars, then,” Carisi said dryly. But Olivia and Rollins looked away, both looking distinctly uncomfortable, and Carisi frowned slightly. “What?”

“Well, given the circumstances,” Olivia told him, her voice calm, placating, “Stone is considering offering him a deal.”

Carisi stared at her. “He what?” he asked blankly.

“He’s just a kid, Sonny,” Rollins told him again, as if he hadn’t understood her the first time. “What he did was wrong and he has to live with that for the rest of his life, but that doesn’t mean he deserves—”

“He killed Barba,” Carisi said flatly. “He deserves—”

“What?” Olivia asked. “To die as well?”

Carisi glared at her. “To know what it’s like to lose everything,” he finished.

“Carisi—”

But he didn’t stay to listen to the rest, turning on heel and walking out, heading straight for Stone’s office.

For the first time in longer than Carisi cared to admit, he finally had rediscovered something like motivation.

When he got to Stone’s office, Carmen glanced up at him, eyes widening in surprise. “Det. Carisi?” she asked, almost like she couldn’t believe it, and Carisi realized that he hadn’t seen her since Barba’s funeral, had made every excuse not to go to Stone’s office. “What are— I mean, can I help you with something?”

“I need to see Stone.”

Something tightened in Carmen’s face, and Carisi wondered if she had hoped this would be a warmer reunion. “How have you been doing?” she asked quietly. “I know we haven’t really talked since—”

“Stone,” Carisi said, cutting her off. “I need to see him.”

Carmen looked crestfallen for just a moment. “Sonny, please,” she said softly, and Carisi couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “I don’t really have anyone that I can talk to, and I know you miss him, too."

Carisi swallowed, hard, and slowly shook his head. “I can’t.”

Carmen’s expression hardened, and she nodded stiffly. “Mr. Stone has a few minutes before his next meeting,” she said, falling back on formality. “I’ll just see if he can see you.”

She disappeared into Stone’s office and Carisi took her absence as the moment he needed to get his emotions in check. He needed every ounce of strength and determination for this — for Barba.

Carmen reemerged a few moments later, her expression carefully neutral. “You can go in,” she said, and Carisi nodded distractedly before heading into Stone’s office.

“Det. Carisi,” Stone said, standing and looking him gravely. “I’d ask why you’re here, but I’m pretty sure I can guess.”

“Olivia said you were planning on offering him a deal,” Carisi said without preamble. “I’m here to ask you not to.”

Stone looked at him carefully. “This is a first-time offender with no priors, from a good family. Letting him plead down to a lesser charge is exactly the kind of thing you used to advocate for.”

Carisi’s head snapped up. “When circumstances called for it,” he said hotly. “This wasn’t some kid blowing a red light. This is an adult who decided to drink and drive and who killed someone.”

“Yes, thank you, Detective, I’m aware of the circumstances,” Stone said, a little snidely, and Carisi glared at him.

“Then you know that the only thing he should be pleading to is Aggravated Vehicular Manslaughter. Class B Felony, 25 years. Hell, I’ll be generous and throw in possibility for parole after 15.”

“Which is precisely why friends of the decedent aren’t generally allowed to determine the charges or sentences for the accused,” Stone said mildly, his unconcerned tone causing irritation to fork down Carisi’s spine. “Pleading this down to Vehicular Manslaughter in the Second Degree is routine for this kind of case.”

Carisi gaped at him, his heart pounding painfully in his ears. “Seven years,” he managed finally. “You want him to serve seven years for killing Barba.”

Stone cleared his throat, deliberately looking down at his desk. “I’m actually going to recommend a mandatory treatment program and time served.”

Carisi’s heart stopped, and he hadn’t reached out to steady himself against Stone’s desk, he wasn’t sure he’d still be standing upright. “Time served,” he breathed, staring at Stone. “You want to let him walk free?”

“He’ll also have to surrender his license—” Stone said, droning on with other minor stipulations but Carisi didn’t hear him, staring blankly at him, his hands curling into fists against the polished surface of the desk that had once belonged to Barba.

Time served.

Barba’s killer would walk out of court a free man, unburdened by what he had done, by the death he had caused. Unburdened in a way that Carisi never again would be.

“You can’t do this.”

Stone broke off and frowned at him. “Detective, I appreciate your concern and I will note it for the judge, but this isn’t your decision to make.”

Carisi shook his head. “You are a letting a murderer walk free,” he said, his voice low.

Stone met his gaze evenly. “Funny you of all people should say that.”

Carisi stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“There were plenty of people who said the same thing when Rafael Barba walked out of here a free man.” The breath caught in Carisi’s throat. “And I don’t recall hearing you complain about that.”

When he later recalled that moment, Carisi had no memory of his fist tightening, of him taking a swing, of his knuckles connecting with Stone’s face. What he next remembered was standing there, cradling his now aching hand, as Stone picked himself up off the floor, a red mark splashed across his cheek.

“Mr. Stone!” Carmen was saying, eyes wide with horror as she looked from Carisi to Stone, and Carisi stumbled backward, aware for the first time of what he had done. Assaulting an ADA was a great way to get his shield taken away, not to mention the last time Carisi had punched someone who wasn’t a perp, he’d been young enough to be sent to bed without supper.

He could taste the bitter tang of adrenaline in his mouth, and he turned to make his escape before Stone could call for security, could have him detained. _Fleeing the scene makes you look guilty_ , he could hear Barba say in his head and he shook it wildly as if to clear it, practically sprinting toward the door.

“It’s fine,” he could barely hear Stone tell Carmen. “Just let him go.”

Go he certainly did, racing from One Hogan Place and putting a few blocks between him and the scene of the crime before he stopped to finally breathe, sagging against a random building and holding a stitch in his side as he gasped for breath.

A small, hysterical giggle bubbled up from his chest and for one brief moment, Carisi allowed himself to enjoy having punched Stone in the face.

But the moment didn’t last.

It didn’t change anything. Those fifteen seconds of self-satisfaction didn’t change the fact that Barba’s killer wouldn’t serve any jail time, certainly wouldn’t change whatever suspension awaited him as soon as Stone told Olivia what he’d done. It certainly didn’t change the fact that Barba was gone.

He scrubbed a hand across his face and straightened.

If nothing could change, maybe it was time he stopped trying.

Carisi glanced around and spotted a dingy bar just up the street. “Perfect,” he muttered before making a beeline in that direction, making sure to turn his phone off before he ducked into the bar.

A few hours later, nothing certainly changed, but Carisi was spectacularly drunk and no longer cared. Not about Stone, not about Barba’s killer, not even about Barba himself—

Well, he mused as he took another shot of whiskey, he wasn’t sure he could ever _not_ care about Barba. But he could certainly try drinking until he forgot about the ache in his chest that threatened to consume him whenever he spent too long thinking about Barba.

But better that ache than the pain he felt every time he was reminded that no one else seemed to care that Barba was gone. The whole world had kept moving and it was like Carisi had been left behind, stuck somewhere between a world with Barba and a world without.

Carisi didn’t know how long he sat on the barstool, tossing back whiskey like water and chasing shots with shitty beer, but the next he knew, the bartender’s face swam into view. “Need me to call you a cab?” the man asked gruffly.

“Wha—?” Carisi asked, or at least tried to.

“It’s 4 am,” the bartender informed him. “You gotta get outta here.” Carisi nodded, his head feeling too heavy for him to hold up on his own, and he slid bonelessly from the stool, almost falling onto the ground. “C’mon, man, lemme call you a cab.”

“M’good,” Carisi told him, straightening and running a hand across his face. “Gotta get to work.”

The bartender eyed him warily, glancing down at the gun and badge Carisi realized a moment too late he was still wearing. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

Carisi waved a dismissive hand before pulling out his phone and turning it back on, ignoring the missed calls and texts. “‘ll be fine,” he mumbled, squinting at his phone to pull up the Uber app.

He had no recollection of the Uber arriving, no memory of getting in the car, but the next thing he knew someone was shaking his shoulder. “You’re here,” the driver told him, sounding concerned. Carisi blinked blearily around him and nodded slowly. “Look, you want me to take you home instead? You don’t look so good.”

“M’fine,” Carisi muttered, sliding out of the car and stumbling toward the precinct door. He caught sight of himself in the window and winced. Not even changing into the suit he kept in his locker was going to make him look any better. His hair gel had entirely lost its hold, leaving his hair spilling over his forehead in greasy clumps, and the shadows under his eyes looked more like bruises.

Speaking of bruises, judging by the throbbing from his right hand, he was going to wind up with a hell of a bruise on his knuckles that wouldn’t be easy to explain away.

Still, he had no other choice but to shoulder the door open and make his way upstairs. At the very least, he could splash some cold water on his face and maybe sober up a little before Olivia got in for the day.

Luck was clearly not on his side, however, as he tripped getting off the elevator and would’ve fallen were it not for Rollins and Olivia, who were both there and who caught him almost immediately. “Sonny?” Olivia asked sharply, and Carisi shook his head to try and clear it.

“Where the hell have you been?” Rollins demanded, looking him up and down, and Carisi blinked at her before finally placing the expression on her face.

Worry. Concern.

Well, of course. He had decked a New York County ADA and then turned his phone off and disappeared. He was just impressed that they had noticed.

“Sorry,” he said, avoiding looking at them. “Turned my phone off.”

He made as if to brush past them but Rollins caught his arm. “Are you ok?” she asked, before wrinkling her nose and adding, “You smell like a distillery.”

Olivia made an identical face. “Have you been drinking?” she asked quietly.

Carisi forced a grin. “What was it Barba used to say?” he asked with a humorless laugh. “Deny what you can’t admit, right?”

“Christ, Sonny, have you even slept?” Rollins asked, and he was strangely gratified that she sounded less concerned and more disgusted. It was more in line with what he deserved.

“Truth be told, ‘Manda, I didn’t exactly make it home last night,” Carisi told her, still smiling his pained, forced grin.

“You’re still drunk.” It was Olivia who spoke that time, her voice sharp, and Carisi glanced over at her, opting for a silent shrug. “Detective—”

Carisi interrupted her, his voice louder than he perhaps intended. “Look, Liv, I can still do my job, so—”

“No, Detective, you can’t.” Carisi glared at her, but Olivia didn’t so much as flinch. “Gun and shield, Carisi. And then go home.”

“Liv—” Carisi started, but she just shook her head.

“Now.”

For a moment, Carisi considered arguing, even though the thought of going home and going to bed certainly sounded better than the idea of sitting at his desk, but he didn’t have it in him to fight. He didn’t even know what he had left to fight for.

So he unclipped his badge and his gun holster, his fingers fumbling and clumsy and drawing the process out longer than it needed to, and he handed his shield and his gun to Olivia without a word of complaint.

And then he went home.

He had no recollection of getting home and equally no recollection of collapsing on his bed and passing out, but he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to forget waking up and feeling like he had run headfirst into a brick wall. Twice.

“Oh my God,” he moaned aloud as he slowly sat up, the room spinning, and he glanced out the window, surprised to see that it was still light out. A glance at the clock had him blinking in confusion before it clicked. It was the next morning. He had slept the entire day and night.

And he was still more hungover than he had ever been in his life.

He rolled over to grab his phone, expecting a slew of messages from Olivia and Rollins, but instead just had one official email from Olivia notifying him that while Stone wasn’t pressing charges, he was on paid leave through the end of the week and then would be on modified assignment until he could meet with a psychologist and be cleared for field duty again.

He exhaled sharply and lay back against his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn’t blame Olivia for taking his gun and shield or for not giving them back right away, and at this point, he wasn’t sure which idea frightened him more: seeing the department psychologist or spending the rest of the week in his apartment.

He spent that first day the same he had spent every day in his apartment, mostly just sitting and staring, lost in thought and memory, drifting through his place like a ghost.

Halfway through the second day, he realized he couldn’t just sit around. For the first time in a long time, he felt an itch under his skin to get outside of the walls of his apartment, to go _somewhere_ and do _something_.

He didn’t know what that something should be.

Once upon a time, he would call one of his sisters or his parents, make a trip out to Staten Island, but he had been avoiding them, had ignored the group text with his sisters, had sent all of Bella’s calls to voicemail.

Facing them wasn’t something he relished, even now.

As usual when he thought about having to call someone, to make plans to do something, he felt the familiar pang at not being able to call Barba, not being able to talk to him or see him…

He stood suddenly as realization hit.

He could see him.

Well, not quite _him_ , exactly, but he could at the very least visit his grave.

Carisi wasn’t sure what inspired him to think of that or what exactly he was hoping to find there, other than some kind of concrete reminder that Barba had existed, that while everyone else had somehow adjusted to the world as if he had never been there, that he had been.

It lit something in Carisi that had dormant for far too long, and he was dressed and out the door in record time. He even decided to stop by the bodega and grab a cup of coffee on his way, and when the bodega man smiled at him as he handed him his change, Carisi managed a small but genuine smile in return.

The ride out to the Bronx was long but Carisi found he was ok with just sitting and people-watching for a little bit. And when he finally got to the cemetery, he even enjoyed the sunshine as he picked his way through the graves.

Then he saw Barba’s grave, and his heart seemed to stutter to a stop.

It was still unmarked by anything but the temporary wooden cross the cemetery put up until the headstone arrived, and the simplicity seemed stark to Carisi. So unfitting of Barba, of his ostentatious ties and bright-patterned socks and those damn suspenders. Barba deserved something that stood out for his grave, something as singular as the man himself had been, something straightbacked in the face of adversity and so brimming with confidence you’d mistake him for being taller, white, richer, anything but a poor kid who grew up not even ten blocks from where Carisi was standing.

And lacking something that could possibly pay tribute to all that Barba was, Barba deserved to still be alive.

Carisi swallowed, hard, and crossed himself, mumbling his way through a prayer for the holy souls. He stared down at the grave, at the sprigs of grass just beginning to grow over the patch of dirt, and despite wanting to come here today, despite doing this to himself, he couldn’t seem to find anything to say to Barba.

Except for the truth, plain and inadequate as it was.

“I miss you, Raf,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Every single day. And I don’t—” He cleared his throat. “I don’t understand how everyone can act like you were never even here. Liv, she—” He shook his head. “She’s carrying on like this was nothing and maybe she misses you, too, but she does a damn good job of hiding it.” He sighed and looked away, staring out over the cemetery. “Maybe that’s my problem,” he mutters. “Maybe I’m not doing a good enough job of hiding it. I just…”

He trailed off as he caught sight of someone approaching, someone he recognized, and he froze, almost hoping she wouldn’t notice him. But it was too late — Lucia Barba clearly spotted him, given the way she stopped in her tracks for a moment before continuing towards him. “Mrs. Barba,” he said in greeting when she reached the grave.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” she told him, and Carisi shook his head.

“Don’t be,” he said, trying to give her a small smile, though he wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “It’s fine.”

Lucia looked at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, I know we’ve met before but I can’t place where.”

“We, uh, we met at the hospital,” Carisi said, a little awkwardly, the memory gripping the edges of his chest like a vice that threatened to crush him.

But Lucia’s expression softened, just slightly. “Of course,” she said. “Det. Carisi.” Without warning, she reached out and pulled him into a tight hug, and Carisi was struck by the realization that she was almost the same height as Barba. “I never did get a chance to thank you,” she said, her voice muffled slightly against his chest.

“I didn’t do anything,” Carisi told her, patting her back gently.

“You were there when I needed someone,” Lucia tells him quietly. “And that means more than I can possibly explain.” She let go of Carisi and clucked her tongue when she looked at him. “I got lipstick on your coat,” she said with a light laugh, reaching out to wipe it off. “What will your girlfriend think.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Carisi said automatically.

Lucia raised an eyebrow, clearly demonstrating who Barba had learned that particular facial expression from. “Your boyfriend, then,” she said off-handedly.

Carisi flushed. “I don’t have a boyfriend either,” he mumbled, before asking, “How did you—”

“You forget, Detective, I raised Rafael.” Her smile turned sad and she abandoned her attempt to get her lipstick off of Carisi’s shoulder, instead turning to glance at Barba’s grave. “He and I fought about it,” she said quietly. “Years ago now, but when I think of how much time we wasted not speaking to each other…”

She trailed off and Carisi nodded in understanding. “I think my ma’s still trying to forgive me,” he offered to try to make her feel better.

Lucia smiled at him. “She’ll realize one day,” she said.

“Realize what?”

“That there is nothing to forgive,” Lucia said simply. “That she is lucky she has a son who is loving and kind, and the rest doesn’t matter.”

Carisi ducked his head and swallowed hard before nodding slowly. “Sounds like Rafael was lucky to have you.”

Lucia shook her head. “I’d like to think I did the best that I could for him, but there was so much we didn’t talk about,” she said wistfully. “And then it was too late…”

Again she trailed off and Carisi stared at Barba’s grave, tears pricking in his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered, knowing only too well how she felt. “Too late.”

He must have stared at the grave for a few moments too long because Lucia cleared her throat. “I couldn’t decide on a headstone,” she told him, and Carisi blinked at her. “I didn’t know what he would want it to say. That’s why it hasn’t come yet.”

“Can I ask what you decided on?”

“Do you know José Martí?” Carisi shook his head and Lucia nodded like she wasn’t surprised by that. “He was a poet, a national hero of Cuba. One of Rafi’s favorites. I decided to go with a quote from him.” She stared off into space before reciting, “No me pongan en lo oscuro a morir como un traidor: yo soy bueno, y como bueno moriré de cara al sol.”

“That’s beautiful,” Carisi told her, hesitating before asking, “What does it mean?”

Lucia wiped a tear from her cheek. “Do not put me in the dark to die like a traitor. I am good, and like a good thing, I will die with my face to the sun.”

Carisi’s chest felt tight and he blinked away the tears he could feel well in his own eyes. “Like I said,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Beautiful.”

Lucia smiled at him. “I hope he would agree,” she said softly, wiping her cheek once more before her tone turned brisk. “There’s a church not far from here that does an evening Mass. I was planning on attending — will you come with me?”

Carisi was taken aback as much by the request as the idea. “Oh, uh, I dunno,” he hedged. “I dunno if you really want me there—”

“I do,” Lucia said firmly.

“It’s just that I, uh, I haven’t been to Mass since…”

He trailed off but Lucia nodded in understanding. “Then it sounds like you need it.”

Carisi glanced at her, a small, fleeting smile crossing his face. “You’re not used to being told no, are you?”

“Something I’m certain my son and I had in common,” Lucia said, taking Carisi’s arm.

Carisi just shook his head as he walked with her out of the cemetery. “You sure did,” he said quietly, but for once, the thought didn’t make his chest ache. Or at the very least, it didn’t make it ache quite as much.

* * *

 

The Mass was a quiet, contemplative service as dusk fell, and despite Carisi’s misgivings, despite still not being sure that returning to church was the best thing for him, he felt oddly at peace as he walked Lucia out. She let out a sigh and turned to smile at him. “Thank you, Detective.”

“It was good to go,” Carisi admitted and Lucia nodded.

“Told you so,” she said, a little smugly, and again Carisi was reminded so vividly of Rafael, but this time, again, it hurt just a little less. “Now, am I going to have to drag you over for dinner or will you come voluntarily?”

“You really don’t have to—” Carisi started to protest, but when Lucia just gave him a look, he relented with a laugh. “Fine, if you insist.”

“I do,” Lucia said firmly, again taking his arm, and together they made their way to her apartment.

It was a surprisingly modern-looking place, all things considered, while still somehow retaining the warmth and coziness that he would expect. “I hope you don’t mind leftovers,” she told him, sitting him down at the kitchen table and glaring at him in a way that indicated he should not bother offering to help. “The neighbors are still bringing more meals than I can hope to eat in this lifetime or the next, and my freezer’s been full since the funeral.”

“I don’t mind,” Carisi told her, truthfully, in no small part because food had stopped tasting like much of anything to him in the past few weeks.

Lucia watching him obediently eating the food she set in front of him and managed a tight, sad smile. “I’ve stopped tasting food, too,” she told him, and Carisi looked up at her, surprised. “Everyone keeps telling me to give it time, but how much time must I give it before I taste my favorite dishes without thinking of cooking them for Rafi? And do I even want that to happen?”

Carisi nodded slowly. “It feels like everyone has moved on,” he confessed, staring down at the tablecloth. “Like everyone else has forgotten. And I — I don’t wanna forget him.”

Lucia reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently before telling him, “Honestly, there are some days when I wish I could forget, too. There’s so much that I wanted to tell him, so much that I still blame myself for. His father, and his childhood…” Her voice broke. “And the fact that for most of the last year of his life, my son and I did not speak.”

Carisi looked at her sharply. “Why not?” he asked.

“When he was arrested,” Lucia said, her voice low, “when he was on trial for what he did...I couldn’t face him. My son, the baby killer. I…” She shook her head. “I could not reconcile the man I raised, the man I loved, with someone who would do that.”

“I’m not sure any of us could,” Carisi said, his voice low. “It…well, truth be told, it made about as much sense as him dying suddenly in a car crash.”

He didn’t mean for it to sound as harsh as it did, but Lucia did not seem to mind, merely nodding her head. “I imagine you faced similar difficulty as I did, perhaps more so than some of your colleagues.”

Carisi shrugged. “At first, yeah,” he admitted. “But no matter what the Church says, I also know the law. And Barba — I mean, uh, Rafael — he was acquitted. And that has to count for something.”

Lucia laughed lightly. “You sound just like Rafi did in his letters.”

“Letters?” Carisi asked, curious despite himself.

“Cartas del Purgatorio,” Lucia told him, her smile fading, just slightly. “Letters from purgatory, he called them. Rafael wrote me letters every now and then, back when he was in school or when I was out of town or either of us were busy with work. I think they were his way to get things out of his system.” She gave Carisi a small smile. “That is how I recognized your name. Between his letters and the things he would say about you and your squad…” She trailed off, her smile again fading, and she shrugged. “After we...stopped talking — and bear in mind, we used to speak on the phone almost every day — he started writing me daily letters instead. Or almost every day, at least.”

“What did they say?”

The words were out of Carisi’s mouth before he could stop them, and he winced, realizing how horribly insensitive it must’ve sounded for him to ask, to pry into the only words a grieving mother had left of her son. But before he could apologize, Lucia told him, “The first ones were to try and explain, I think, why he did it and what happened. But then he would just write to me about his day, to tell me about his job search, about getting settled into a new career. How much he missed from his old job, how much he surprisingly didn’t miss…”

Again she trailed off, and Carisi cleared his throat. “That sounds like a wonderful gift,” he told her honestly. “To have those to hold onto.”

Lucia’s smile was sad, and she patted his hand. “Surely you have some of his words as well,” she said, her tone turning lightly teasing. “I cannot imagine my son was succinct in email or text message form.”

Carisi laughed and he shook his head. “I do have that,” he admitted. “But it’s…” He shrugged. “I dunno. It’s not the same. Rafael always did say just as much in what he didn’t say as what he did.”

Lucia searched his expression for a moment before she patted his hand again. “Come with me,” she said, standing up, and Carisi, though confused, hurried to follow. She led him to what must have been the guest bedroom and instructed him to sit before leaving him there and returning moments later with a shoebox. “Here,” she said, handing it over, and Carisi glanced inside.

He recognized Barba’s handwriting immediately and looked up at Lucia, startled. “Is this—”

“All of Rafi’s letters,” she told him. “The ones I kept, at least, from before, and as many as I could find from after we stopped speaking. You can read them, if you’d like.”

Carisi instantly tried to hand the shoebox back to her. “I can’t,” he told her, a little panicked. “It’s not my place — I mean, he wrote them to you—”

“And yet you’d almost certainly get more out of them than I would,” she said calmly. “The people he mentions, the cases he talks about — you knew his work better than I ever could. And…” She took a deep breath. “And I would hope they give you as much comfort as they’ve given me.”

Carisi shook his head wordlessly but Lucia was already heading toward the door of the guest room. “I’ll leave you to it,” she told him, before leaving him alone with the box of letters.

For one long moment, Carisi just stared at the shoebox, seriously considering just leaving them there. Whatever Barba had told his mother, there was probably a good reason why he’d told her and not other people, and Carisi knew better than anyone that there were pretty clear lines of consent there.

On the other hand…

He tipped the shoebox over, dumping the letters out on the bed, and picked one up at random. The date on the letter indicated that it was sent just after Carisi himself had arrived at SVU, and he skimmed it, trying not to feel too eager to see if he was referenced.

— _I know in the end you had your reasons for staying, Mami, and I don’t blame you, but sitting in this courtroom, listening to Nick’s father testify — it’s like listening to Papi all over again. To the excuses he would make whenever he calmed down, as if he could somehow excuse everything he said and did when enraged. I wish now as I did then that I could’ve kept you safe from it, and it took me a long time to realize you must have wished the same._ —

Carisi set the letter down, remembering the case against Nick’s dad all too well. He had barely known Barba then and still he’d realized how hard this case hit him. He picked up a different letter, skimming through that one as well.

Slowly but surely, he made his way through the stack, starting with the ones before the trial and losing himself in the words, in the turns of phrase that were just so _Barba_ , that were exactly like the way he used to talk, and he could almost hear Barba’s voice in his head as he read through them. He saw his name pop up every now and then, mostly just as a part of the numerous references to the squad, and he traced the pad of his thumb over _Carisi_ written in Barba’s hasty scrawl, the tiniest thing that connected them.

Then he turned to the ones written after the trial.

Gone were the references to the squad, and Carisi knew why: Barba had all but disappeared after his trial, starting a new job and a new life that had nothing to do with SVU. For the longest time, Carisi had assumed that meant Barba wanted nothing to do with him as well, until he had accidentally texted him a question about a case, forgetting as he did many times those first few weeks that Barba was no longer their ADA or willing to answer his every question about the finer points of case law.

But Barba had answered, their friendship had grown again, and then—

He shook his head quickly to clear it, tamping down the emotion that threatened as always to spill over. He picked up another letter and paused at what he read.

— _Sonny texted me today. Out of the blue. We haven’t spoken since before the trial but he texted me some easy law question a 1L frankly should’ve been able to answer or, barring that, a quick ten second Google search could’ve answered for him in the time it took to text me. But I didn’t mind. I like knowing that he still thinks about me. That he still trusts me to have the answers._ —

Carisi blinked back tears at that. “Of course I still trusted you,” he murmured, setting the letter down. “I never stopped.”

He picked up another and stopped at another reference to him, just a quick one this time.

— _Suggested to Sonny that we should meet up for dinner. Forgot it was Good Friday. I’m sure the blasphemy has abuelita rolling in her grave, but I figured you’d get a kick out of it.—_

And in another—

— _Sonny was almost an hour late meeting me to get coffee. Apparently, he’s been so tired from pulling doubles that he fell asleep in Mass and the parishioners were kind enough not to wake him. Reminds me of when Papi used to use the homily as his nap time on Sunday mornings. Remember? Only you’ll be glad to know that this is the only thing Sonny has in common with Papi. Well, that and he’s a Mets fan, but the Lord doesn’t give with both hands.—_

And again—

— _Spent what felt like half my day texting with Sonny. Apparently, he’s less than a fan of the new ADA, and not just because the man tried to get me sent to prison. I haven’t been much help since quite frankly, there’s not much in this particular case that I’d do differently, but it’s nice to be able to let Sonny rant. I’ll save the lesson on how wrong he is about some points for a later time._ —

And on, and on.

For the first time, Carisi saw their friendship reforming and deepening and turning into something more unfolding on paper from Barba’s perspective. And even though he knew the end, even though Barba never got to tell him any of this in person, and even though Carisi knew he would wish until the end of time that he did, it still felt like the answers he didn’t even realize he’d been looking for it to see it written down here, like this.

Barba had cared about him much more than Carisi had ever realized, had written to his mother about him, had even said he wanted to bring Carisi home to meet her.

— _I know I’ve been a disappointment to you. I know that by doing what I did, I threw away the future that you sacrificed so much to give me. But Mami, I know you will love Sonny when you meet him, just like I do. And I just hope that you might see that it was worth it, that now I get to bring home a nice Catholic boy and maybe even get to have a future that you considered worthwhile after all._ —

Carisi could feel his tears falling but made no effort to stop them, just taking a deep, raggedy breath. He stared down at the words until the tears in his eyes blurred them so much that he could no longer read them. For a moment, he wondered idly if that was why Lucia had invited him over, had given him these letters to read, because of what Barba had said about him, about loving him.

Suddenly, he sat up straighter, realization hitting, and he grabbed the pile of letters, sorting through them, searching and scanning for the one thing he hadn’t seen.

And the one thing he couldn’t seem to find.

Barba had never referred to him by his full name. In all his letters before the trial, he had only ever been ‘Carisi’, and after, only ever ‘Sonny’.

And when he had introduced himself to Lucia at the hospital—

He didn’t even realize he was crying again until Lucia was at his shoulder, genuine concern in her voice as she asked, “Det. Carisi, is everything alright?”

Carisi didn’t know how to answer that question. He had answers now, more than he had ever hoped for, and more questions that would remain forever unanswered, but having read these letters, he knew Lucia must feel the same. And there was one question that he knew that he could answer for her.

It wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t make it hurt less for Carisi to think about Barba, to wonder about what could or should have been for them, and he imagined it would be the same for Lucia.

But it was something. And that was more than he’d had in a long time.

They had both lost so much, more than either would ever be able to explain to the other. But sitting here, surrounded by letters that Barba had written, Carisi had a feeling that they might just have found something as well.

So he took a deep, steadying breath before looking up at her and telling her simply, “Call me Sonny.”


End file.
